


forty-four sunsets I saw without you

by wolfsan11



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Butterflies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Falling In Love, Fast burn???, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Memory Loss, Modern AU, Nightmares, Not what you think, POV Shiro (Voltron), Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-05-31 19:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15126047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfsan11/pseuds/wolfsan11
Summary: “I . . . I think I lost someone. I don’t know who.”Shiro's an army veteran who likes taking his morning runs past the old lighthouse on the beach, happily settled in the tiny sea-side town he's lived in for years. Keith's the new lighthouse keeper in charge. They meet for the first time on an otherwise normal day, at the base of said lighthouse.None of the above is true.Things begin to unravel soon after and Shiro is caught between past and future—with the occasional butterfly thrown in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paleesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paleesky/gifts).



> I've rewritten this thing so many times and I'm finally at a point where I'm satisfied sljflksdjf
> 
> For @paleesky, the loveliest and sweetest person I've ever had the honour of befriending, Tamara ILU <3 Thank you for being so patient and for encouraging me when I was feeling pretty low about it, you make my heart so full ;u; <3 <3 You deserve the world, lovely. Also, this turned out SO MUCH LONGER than I expected tbh, but I hope you like it!!!
> 
> Chapter 2 should be up in a few days!

There’s an old lighthouse atop the cliff that has faithfully watched over souls sailing by for the last 150 years. It’s been abandoned for about half as long too, maybe more; decommissioned and replaced for a fancier one further down the coast by the next town. The erosion of sea spray, wind and time have yet to pull it down and it sits sturdy, a place marker of history in a town that hasn’t seen all that much change.

The last time Shiro sees Keith, it’s atop that old lighthouse. Red paints the sky beyond, sun sinking steadily to the horizon, and Keith stands with his back to it all, hooded in a shaft of fading light that leaves his hair looking like it’s been woven with spun gold. His features are shaded, hidden away.

Somehow, Shiro still knows he’s smiling, watching his hand lift towards him in invitation.

The second time Shiro sees Keith is at the base of that same lighthouse, and it’s a meeting neither expects. Someone dropping all the items in their hands to stop and stare is usually enough of a sign of _things_ being afoot. Shiro should have known from the start.

No wonder it takes so little to fall in love.

Because the first time Shiro sees Keith—

The first time, there’s only light.

 

* * *

 

Down on the Olkari beach, the rhythmic lap of waves against wet sand and the crunch of the same beneath his feet are some of the more soothing sounds that accompany Shiro on his morning jog. At 5 AM, there’s no one to disturb his peace; no one to eye him with poorly concealed pity or desire, or to begin a round of questions to have him spill his life story.

There’s no story to tell, in Shiro’s mind. None that they haven’t heard before anyway.

Army, deployment and detonation are all the words anyone needs before they’re spouting hurried apologies. Unfortunately, he’s since learned that some responses only encourage the more curious and brash to prod further at his internal wounds.

On more forgiving days, he’ll admit to himself that they’re not all bad. Just far too nosy for their own good, as is bound to be in a tiny sea-side town such as theirs. One where everyone knows everything about everyone else. Sometimes it’s just easier to portray himself as that one eccentric veteran living on the edge of town.

He’s made a considerable way through his run by the time the sun peeks out to brighten the skyline. The sand turns gold and seagulls squawk from high above as they prepare to hunt for their first meal of the day. His prosthetic glints in the light, a sharp, bright point in the corner of his vision.

A butterfly flits past his face, bringing him to a pause. Its black wings contrast against the pastel skies, softened at the tips with a dusting of pink-orange. It’s an unusual sight, on a beach as it is, but a pleasant one nonetheless. He watches it until it winks away into the distance.

By the time he reaches the finishing stretch of the beach, his legs are feeling it, that satisfying ache from a good run. Perspiration dots his temples and Shiro allows himself to slow down to a walk, deciding on a quick break in the shadow of the old lighthouse. It sits on a low cliff, right where sand turns into gravel turns into dirt and rock; the waters are a swirling deep blue mass just metres below. Sea spray leaves the platform perennially wet, rust and algae covering the railings in a carpet of red and green.

There’s a past here, Shiro knows, and a strange peace stemming from the isolation. People don’t really come out here all that often anymore. For him, it’s mostly a milestone for a completed run, but the solitude is what had drawn him here in the first place, so long ago.

Past the entrance and the metal staircase leading up to it, there’s a shaded nook where he stops to lean against the cool stone of the tower. His muscles throb pleasantly from the workout and he fans himself with his soaked shirt, reeling his breath into a normal rhythm.

The grey walls at his back are scored and spray-painted with years-worth of vandalism; teenagers, lovers, artists, all leaving their mark on this tower that had earned them a name and a very brief recognition while it was still functional—Guidance Point Light, second smallest tower in the world. In a town like theirs, with a population of just 2,109 residents, it had been a very big deal. An honour like no other, Shiro thinks, wryly.

It must be something to know the exact number of people you live beside—stranger still to know you’re the latest to join them. To have others know it too, to be so acutely aware of your every word and action, to have that fear that they might already know about the holes—

A briny wind sweeps through his hair then and tugs at his clothes. He takes a deep breath, feeling the barest edge of the freedom that he’s always hoped these runs would inspire in himself. Sweat rivulets down his back, sticking cloth to skin, and Shiro smiles, burrowing away under calm again.

And on that day, in an otherwise constant routine, there shows up the anomaly.

_Klang!_

The lighthouse door slams opens and bangs against the wall, swinging wildly from a fierce kick. A foot pops out from the darkness within to keep it from swinging back shut, shoving impatiently at it to make space. A man comes shuffling out slowly, heaving a large, heavy box in his arms.

Shiro forgets what it means to breathe.

Dark-haired, brows pinched tight and the world’s angriest scowl. He’s the most beautiful thing Shiro’s ever seen. But that’s not what has him stuck fast, staring. The man is dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit that almost matches his blazing eyes and there’s something about his presence that draws attention. Like a black hole pulling in its surroundings. Like looking away from him wasn’t a choice made lightly.

He must make some kind of noise or movement because then those eyes are on him and he has to take back that earlier statement: looking away isn’t a choice at all.

Next thing he knows, he’s watching the box topples from suddenly slack arms. It lands with a smack, insides spilling out as the cardboard cracks open. The man swears, ducking down to gather what looks like dusty, broken pipes, old books and other miscellaneous junk.

Shiro stands frozen for a second longer before awareness returns. He scrambles up the staircase to offer help but finds himself on the receiving end of a fierce glare that stops him in his tracks.

“You surprised me,” the man grumbles, and god, Shiro’s stupidly enthralled with the rasp of his voice—surprisingly deep and pleasing. “What were you even doing there?”

“Uh. Sorry, I was just, um. Jogging. I mean, taking a break after jogging, I’m—?” Internally, Shiro curses himself as he fumbles over his words, flustered beyond belief. The man just shakes his head, focus steadfast and fixed on the ruined box that’s been split apart and, now, damp from the wet floor.

“I’m gonna have to get another box,” he sighs in dismay.

“I’m so sorry,” Shiro says again, embarrassed. “Let me help you?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He’s waved off easily with hardly a glance his way, and it sends his heart racing in entirely the wrong way; he’s left anxious and nervous to fix things but unable to do so.

The man makes a face as he picks through the mess, throwing the cardboard aside. Shiro swallows, throat dry, confused with the mixed messages his brain is sending him. He averts his eyes from blue-clad thighs and a trim waist, looking instead at the spilled items. There’s a stack of yellowed newspapers dating to over fifty years back, a pile of ancient oil cans, a broken lantern and frayed bits of rope amongst it.

He eyes the man’s uniform again, properly this time, and it clicks.

“Do you . . . work here? In the lighthouse?”

He gets a distracted nod in response. Shiro shifts on his feet, feeling the slow seep of awkwardness setting in. He should just cut off the conversation before he makes even more of a fool of himself. He tries to think of an excuse and disappear, maybe go drown himself in the sea in embarrassment, but then the man looks up again and gives him a tiny smile.

“I’m the lighthouse keeper, tasked with renovation. I’m new in town, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s what everyone around here seems to like doing anyway.”

Shiro nearly deflates in sheer relief at the abrupt ease in the atmosphere.

“Oh, yeah, ah, the folk here tend to be curious, but they don’t mean any harm,” he says with a sheepish shrug. Then, he adds, “I’m Takashi Shirogane, by the way. You can call me Shiro.”

“Keith. It’s . . . good to meet you. Although, I’d kinda prefer no heart attacks next time.”

Shiro’s face burns as apologies stumble over his tongue, but Keith’s still smiling, twinkle in his eyes. It instills a certain calm in him and he’s not so anxious about this rather disastrous encounter anymore.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling in return. “But here, let me help you.”

Over Keith’s half-hearted protests, they gather the items while Keith procures another box, this one in decidedly better shape than the last. Between the two of them, it’s quick work to load up the junk and carry it down to the old dumpster by the base of the lighthouse, one that probably hasn’t been used in decades. It’s been given a good scrub though, the caked-on grime and dirt long gone.

Shiro gets the inkling that it’s only one of many changes that are soon to set in, and it’s a surprise when the thought doesn’t prickle at him in any way. That notion only strengthens when Keith thanks him with a soft smile on his face.

They part ways, finally, and Shiro heads home, shielding his face from the blinding brightness of the sun. It’s like he’s been swept up by a hurricane of the gentlest kind. The air smells clean and his heart grows strangely warm, body so light he’s almost soaring.

The man’s just a lighthouse keeper. He’s just the most beautiful person Shiro has ever met.

Whoever Keith is, Shiro wants to see more of him.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s found that fate works in funny ways all too often when it comes to him.

The next day is one of self-indulgence, something that he’s been trying to get better at letting himself have. It’s easier these days than it had been at the start, and so it is that Shiro treats himself to a breakfast of the local diner’s famed chocolate chip pancakes. The cook, a friendly man named Hunk who has a bit of a soft spot for him, serves up an extra stack with a fond wink and Shiro reminds himself to leave a large tip.

He’s in heaven with every bite. They’re warm and filling, and though he’s used to cooking for himself, he lets himself have this guilty pleasure without promising himself any compromises to ‘make up’ for it. _You’re allowed this,_ is the constant reminder that lets him enjoy it without burden.

He forks a large piece into his mouth, chewing contently and admiring the fair weather outside the window, when someone drops into the seat across from him without warning. Shiro chokes, the food lodging in his throat, then chokes again when he recognises them.

Keith swears, lurching to his feet again in his panic. “Shit, I’m sorry!”

He seems so much like a startled deer that Shiro has to suppress the laughter that bubbles up alongside the coughs as he spits out the offending piece of pancake into a tissue.

He takes several breaths, trying to calm his racing heart and pretend his face isn’t red as Keith leans in to peer at him in concern. His hair is tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, but he’s in his jumpsuit and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek which speaks of another early day at work.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Shiro waves off the apology and gestures at him to sit, which Keith does rather gingerly.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m fine. Though I have to ask if this is payback for yesterday,” Shiro manages cheerily, then laughs at the scandalised look he receives in response.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Keith mumbles, but he’s still staring at Shiro like he expects him to turn blue and drop for lack of air.

“I’m fine, I promise,” Shiro reassures him and it finally gets the other to relax and sit back. Shiro watches him curiously, the way tension leeches away and his shoulders pull out of their hunch. It’s followed by a faked aloofness when he nods and taps away at the tabletop in an unconcerned manner that he seems to think is convincing. It’s so endearingly transparent that Shiro has to cover his amusement. He clears his throat and gestures at his plate to distract himself.

“So, you here for breakfast?”

Keith latches on to the change in conversation, nodding again hurriedly.

“I just . . . figured I’d check out the place, see what’s worth eating around here.”

“Oh, well, this might be my bias speaking,” Shiro says, with a self-deprecating grin, “but Hunk’s chocolate chip pancakes are to _die_ for.”

In the split between one second and the next, Keith’s expression clouds over to something blank and shadowed. He blinks, slow, lazy, but before Shiro can quite register the emotion, Keith snaps out of it, lifting a hand to flag down the waitress.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, lightly.

Shiro exhales messily and nods, wondering what exactly he’d missed. There's a brief silence, not quite awkward, but teeming with an unexplainable, intangible weight. As they wait for the food to come in, they chat idly and Shiro asks him about the job, hoping to break the strange atmosphere that has fallen over them. Keith shakes his head and scoots his seat forward a little closer.

“One of my crew unearthed a giant nest of rats and had one run up their suit. They freaked and nearly brained me with a 2 by 4, dropped it from way up high, so . . . _Yeah_ , I'm not really in a hurry to head back just yet.”

He says it, casual as you please, like any other ordinary statement to break the ice. It does its job beautifully: Shiro sits upright in shock, his fork clattering from his hand and onto his plate.

“Are—Are you _okay_? You didn't get hurt, did you? How did it happen, did they—”

Keith ducks his head with a small laugh, fingers tracing the water stains on the table. His ears flush pink, the colour moving down to paint his neck the same shade. In the bright lit diner, he’s different from the uncontainable man Shiro had first seen down at the lighthouse. He seems almost . . . smaller, less fierce than his first appearance had hinted at, but brimming with a fire all the same.

_Alright, no._ Shiro snaps himself out of his rambling thoughts in time to hear the end of Keith’s response.

“—just missed me by millimeters. Got lucky I guess.”

_You have to be more careful._

Shiro very firmly does not voice the sentiment that roils in him all at once.

“I . . . That . . . really is some luck,” he says instead, forcing a laugh. Keith smiles at him brightly from across the table and he has to look away.

The idea of that luck almost having failed churns his stomach into something violent and Shiro grips the underside of the table, hard, swallowing back bile. He wants to slap himself for it; it's not normal to feel this viscerally for someone he's just met, right?

The waitress arriving with Keith's food saves him from answering himself and he takes the moment to regain his composure, striving for calm. _Patience yields focus_ , he tells himself, and it gets that bit easier to press down on the senseless panic and turn back to his breakfast.

He’s okay. He can do this. He can.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, though? The pancakes are an instant Keith favourite.

 

* * *

 

The days following the diner encounter are only the beginning of a downwards spiral of sorts.

Shiro sees Keith a lot after that, sometimes on the beach as he jogs past the lighthouse, sometimes in town; in the grocery store or the diner or the bar. From that fact alone, he’s surprised that it takes him a week to realise that Keith had never once asked about his arm, which is more than he can say for most of the townsfolk when he’d first arrived here.

It takes just as long for him to realise that somewhere between the first meeting and the ones that followed, they’ve found a smooth pattern of ease with each other and built a routine to support it. That, somewhere along the way, they’ve become friends.

Between Shiro’s own shift at the medical store and Keith’s busy schedule, it’s hard to find time off to meet, but they make it work. They come into it so easily that it feels like they’ve known each other for years, even though it’s hardly been a month.

Keith migrates the space between them like it's nothing, till it's nonexistent and the comfort between them feels too . . . natural.

The townsfolk become so accustomed to it that on the rare occasion that Shiro finds himself without Keith, it’s something phenomenally odd to them. It invites curiosity from the nosy, and Shiro finds himself fielding questions about it sometimes, as though he’s become the lexicon to all things Keith. It doesn’t help that the man in question is a bit of an enigma to the others.

“He kind of scares me, to be honest,” Hunk admits at one point, when Shiro tries to consult him on it. “How do you deal with him?”

It’s baffling, the way it’s said, because Keith has never been anything but easy to talk to after their initial meeting.

“We just—talk?” Shiro stutters out, and he doesn’t miss the look of disbelief he gets for it.

He’ll admit that Keith tends to appear rather stand-offish at times; he’s not the easiest person to talk to, emotions and story walled away behind an unbreachable mask. His unsmiling face made most others steer clear of him, if nothing.

And yet, with Shiro, it’s different. With Shiro, the same rules don’t seem to apply, because with him, Keith gives away everything. There’s an endearing openness in his emotions that he never lets anyone else see, hints of the life he’s lived seeping through those gaps in his façade. It’s far more than anyone else has gotten.

Every time they meet too, Shiro can’t help the giddy happiness that builds in his throat and he’s almost positive that Keith feels the same way, practically lighting up when they see each other, no matter if they’d met up the day before or not.

It’s probably too soon for that level of connection, by anyone’s standards.

Shiro begins to care less and less about that.

It’s the first time he’s made a friend where both of them just . . . c _lick._

It does something to him, to realise that he’s important enough to someone that they enjoy spending time with him, without exception or expectation. Maybe it’s a little pathetic but after years of living in this town, it’s the most honest companionship he’s ever had.

. . . Or maybe he’s just a little lonely. So sue him.

Over that month of getting closer though, they inevitably learn more about each other, and some things begin to make sense soon enough.

He learns that Keith stays further out on the outskirts of town like him, in a small but clean house not far from the beach and his workplace. It’s a shack of a place, but it’s quiet, which seems just about the the only thing Keith is after.

He learns that Keith loves the peace found early in the day when the sun has barely yet to rise, when socialising isn’t a priority of any kind. That he doesn’t sleep well at times, waking early and staying up late, appearing cranky and bleary-eyed most days when they meet for breakfast, until he’s had his morning coffee at least.

He learns his favourite foods (“Peanut butter totally counts, Shiro, stop laughing!”) and how he’d gotten his job (“No one else wanted it.”) and how he seemed to have no one else to share his life with (“. . . I’m pretty used to it.”).

He learns that there’s a certain look Keith gets that signals a bad time. It’s not often that Shiro sees that look, but it’s enough to become distinct, enough that Shiro wonders if Keith even knows how much he wears his heart on his sleeves. On those days, it’s sorrow that weighs his shoulders down and there’s nothing Shiro can do to distract him from his thoughts, or help him wave them off.

He notices more too, like the way Keith’s always by himself if he’s not with Shiro, and it makes him wonder. Wonder about how Keith is settling in town, if he’s made friendly with his neighbours or with the lighthouse crew who assist him.

Wonder if it’s his imagination that Keith seems as lonely as him sometimes.

 

* * *

 

“So, what’s the deal with the lighthouse guy?”

Shiro takes a deep, deep breath and tries not to twitch at the smug way his customer is glancing at him from behind the counter. He should ignore the question, play dumb or something, but experience has taught him that Lance can be horrifically determined over things like this.

“There’s no deal,” he says, very reluctantly. “We’re just friends.”

An eyebrow goes up and the smirk kicks up another notch.

“’Friends’, huh? Is that what the kids call it these days?”

“Lance, I know you’re just here to ogle the manager—”

“Wait, she’s in today?!”

Shiro can’t contain the snort with the way Lance perks right up at the mere mention of Allura, and it earns him a sharp glare. Lance stabs a finger at him threateningly.

“Ooooh, you. I see what you did there and, I’ll admit, it almost worked but you’re out of luck if you think I’m letting this one go!”

“Look, If you’re not gonna buy anything—”

A handful of cough drops land on the counter and Lance stares expectantly. Shiro doesn’t give him an inch; he dutifully rings up the purchase, takes his time in packing it neatly in a brown paper bag and scoots it over into Lance’s hands.

“Fine,” Lance huffs. “Be that way. I’ll figure it out, one way or another.”

There’s a very brief spell of silence where Shiro busies himself with putting away the change, and then Lance speaks again, softer now: “You just seem happier, is all.”

Shiro stops and takes a moment to absorb that. When he looks up, Lance has an uncharacteristically solemn air about him.

“I hope it all works out for you,” he says, with more sincerity than Shiro had ever known he was capable of, and then he’s got the bag in hand, leaving with a quick wave over his shoulder. Shiro blinks and watches him go, oddly touched by the sentiment.

 

* * *

 

Despite the constant meetups Keith is busy most other days, slogging away for hours in the lighthouse. Shiro tries to visit him often, joining him right after his morning job. He watches him clean off the graffiti on the outside with a stubborn patience, muttering something of a mantra under his breath when some of the old spray paint refuses to come off.

Other days, it’s replacing rotting wooden beams or clearing out years-worth of abandoned seagulls’ nests, hidden here and there at the top of the tower. Shiro had hung out with him that day too, watching the workers scrape the rafters clean. It does his nostrils no favour and the stench of bird droppings and wet feathers haunts him for several days after.

He doesn’t mind it so much though.

Installing electrical wires follows soon after, as well as new coats of paint; whites, reds and dark blues swathing the tower body, the insides splashed a pleasing pale blue. Slowly but surely, the lighthouse shapes up into something to be proud of once more; grander, perhaps, that it had been in its heyday.

 

* * *

 

There’s a day between the work hours, when they’re having lunch together, sat just outside the lighthouse. They roll out a blanket on the baked sand with sandwiches and cold drinks laid around them and enjoy the cool sea breeze as it pulls the heat from their skin.

It’s the day that Shiro just _looks_ at the man beside him and sees more clearly than ever. He’s caught Keith mid-laughter, wiping a greasy hand on his jumpsuit as he sips from the juice box Shiro had bought him. There’s a teasing glint in Keith’s eye as he nudges Shiro in the side and smiles up at him, talking about something in a conversation Shiro’s long zoned out of.

A butterfly flits by, thin wings a lovely scarlet, catching the light like stained glass panes.

Shiro’s heart aches in his chest.

“Shiro? You listening?”

It’s the day he realises he’s fallen in love. He should be panicking, but there’s only peace and a satisfying comfort settled deep in his bones.

“Yeah,” he says, bursting with the thousand things he wants to say then and there. He holds them down, smiles back calmly. “Of course I am.”

He should be panicking, but all he can do is listen to Keith, look at him and fall helplessly further into these emotions that he’d gladly drown in.

 

* * *

 

He has a nightmare that same night.

 

* * *

 

There’s fire and light, white and blinding. There’s heat and pain before it’s doused all at once, leaving a chill sinking into his marrow. Despair hits hard and ugly and he wants to scream.

There’s blood.

It’s a huge, terrible splatter, dead center of his consciousness, red and red and red and red and—

He awakens quietly, shakily, clutching at his right arm. It throbs in time with the rapid pace of his heart, skin prickling tight and feverish, like a layer he needs to cut away. He’s disoriented, can’t stop his body from trembling, or the way his heart drums away inside his ribs.

He sits up, closes his eyes and counts the seconds away until dawn breaks through the split in his curtains; till the rake of his nails over the flesh of his thigh stills his mind.

There’s a name at the tip of his tongue that fades away into decayed memory as the sweet notes of birdsong hit the air.

It’s not Keith’s name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, it just got super mega long dsflkdsjfd. The last chapter is almost ready and shouldn't take as long . . .   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! <3

“—”

“—ro?”

“—alk until you—here—I won’t leave y—”

“Shiro.”

Blink.

There’s sand beneath his feet.

“Are you back?”

Shiro blinks again in confusion. There's a wide blur of blue in his vision that manifests slowly into sea waves, frothing and churning as they smooth over the wet sand until it’s as flat as glass. He’s sat on Olkari beach, jeans rolled up and shoes removed, his jacket flapping in the wind. The sun is high over the horizon, a fireball against the bright blue of the skies.

“Shiro?”

He jolts at the voice’s proximity and turns to find Keith sat right beside him, watching him carefully, brows knitted tight. He leans back a little with Shiro’s attention on him, but hardly enough to make a difference.

“Are you back?” he asks, and Shiro quietly realises he’s repeating himself.

“I . . . what happened?” It comes out croaky, his throat parched dry and aching. He’s not sweating either, and he’d take that as a bad sign if he could just remember how he’d gotten here in the first place. Going by Keith’s calm expression though, he hasn’t completely hit rock bottom. Yet.

“I was taking a break and found you here, kind of . . . zoned out. I wasn’t about to leave you alone like that, so . . .”

Keith reaches at his side and passes over a bottle of water he'd apparently brought with him. Shiro takes it with a distracted thank you, mind running a mile a minute until he has a sip. Then, he’s guzzling it, cool liquid rushing down his throat, some of it dripping over his chin in his haste.

“Hey, hey, slow down, you’ll make yourself sick!”

Shiro pulls it away with a gasp and pants heavily, letting the now-empty bottle fall from numb fingers. There’s a tinny sound in his ears and the water he’d just downed sloshes uncomfortably in his stomach, but it stays put for the moment. He needs to ground himself, but he doesn’t know how. He’s unsteady, vision swaying with the roll of waves, his body something separate and intangible. It’s like he’s floating away without tether, no hope for rescue.

Keith’s hand on his shoulder is a sudden and welcome weight, breaking right through the panic. Seagulls wing high in the skies above them, their cries piercing the silences between the roil of the sea, and he startles when a slightly larger wave crashes onto the beach. It snaps him from the last bit of his haze, clarity hitting, bleak but steady.

“You’re okay.” He hears Keith say it, firm, indisputable. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Shiro nods, a little more frantic than he would like, clumsy as he swipes at his mouth to clear away errant drops of water. The hand on his shoulder is something he can trust in, he knows, and he puts all his focus towards it, letting himself sink back into something resembling stillness.

“I’m okay,” he says, or repeats, _needing_ to believe it. “I’m okay.”

Keith squeezes his shoulder once more and doesn’t let go. They sit quietly for who knows how long, just watching the turf come in and the sun steadily inch towards the horizon. Eventually, that gut-tug feeling like he's being swept out into the very sea before him eases up the slightest, letting him breathe. Keith must notice because he finally speaks.

“Does it hurt?”

Shiro becomes abruptly aware of himself; of how his hand is massaging at the tender skin around his prosthetic to will away a pain he’d somehow managed to take his mind off, as lost in thought as he was. On cue, it throbs, a pulse of hurt that sits front and center, all at once inescapable. He swallows and lets his hand drop, folding metal fingers carefully into his palm until they form a tight fist. The movement shakes Keith’s steadying hand off and Shiro almost has it in himself to mourn it.

“I just . . . had a weird nightmare, didn’t get much sleep. Left me a little tense. It’s not a big deal.”

“Sounds like a big deal if it didn’t let you sleep,” Keith comments.

Shiro sighs and lets his fist go loose again, reaching up to smooth back his hair. It’s a mess today and he can’t remember if he’d even run a comb through it or not. There’s an itch in his blood that won’t let him rest.

“It’s nothing, Keith,” he says. “Let’s drop it, please?”

He gets a frown for that, but Keith doesn’t push him any further on it. Any other time and he would question that, question just how accepting Keith is at times, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The gratitude he feels for the gesture shouldn’t consume him as much as it does, and yet . . .

“Thank you.” It’s all he can manage, and Keith just shakes his head, still frowning.

“It’s fine. I . . . I can give you a massage, if you want? I've been told I'm good at it.”

Shiro blinks and inhales shakily, uncertain on what to say in response.

“Yeah?” He tries to grin, to pass off the moment as anything but urgent. “By who, the same people who think you’re gonna murder them for looking at you wrong?”

The joke falls stupidly flat but Keith cocks an eyebrow at him, a small smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got a team who do some tough work in the lighthouse, you know? Muscle cramps and back aches are a thing.”

Shiro had been introduced to the ragtag team that made up Keith’s crew just a week back, and forgive him if he couldn't remember a single one of their names. From the tall guy with a scar down his eye, to the one who seemed to live in his last-clean-shirt-in-the-wardrobe outfit, to the one who always bestowed Shiro with bags of Cheetos whenever they crossed paths, like a demigod blessing him with a life of eternal cheesy goodness. Then, there was the one with the mohawk who was somehow the serious one, and another daredevil type with Wolverine hair.

An odd team made of good, honest people, who looked after one another like family.

It prompts Shiro to smile, despite himself. There’s amusement threading inside him amongst all the panic that’s just beginning to settle. He’s not sure if he’s ready for the questions that this will bring, or the memories that will flare up, but at this point he’s too drained to worry about it. What’s the worst that could happen, right?

“Alright. Fine. Work your magic, then.”

If Keith notices the nervous tone underlying his words, he doesn’t say anything. Just smiles and turns himself around, crossing his legs and shuffling closer until his shins press against Shiro’s side. He's warm, and it's a strange relief to have him so near. Shiro waits patiently as Keith reaches out until his hands are on his arm, right at the seam where metal meets skin. Shiro leans into it without thought, closing his eyes until he’s left with sound and touch alone. Keith’s hands run even warmer than his body, calloused but gentle as they dig into the tensed muscle in a pattern of knead and release.

Keith is patient as he works his fingers in, coaxing blood to flow and forcing the stiffness out. Shiro lets out a breath and begins to relax, a sigh escaping his lips. There’s still one thing bothering him though, that the object of his current attention and worry hasn’t seemed to notice at all.

“Aren’t you . . . even a bit curious? About my arm?” He asks, at last, when the silence has gone on long enough. He’s tired from the day already, but he wants to know. Wants to know what Keith thinks, how he thinks, and what he thinks of Shiro, most of all. It's embarrassing. Shiro doesn’t understand how he’s even reached this point, but that’s simply how it is now.

Keith looks up from his work for a moment, assessing him, as though debating his words. They both know what the conversation is about though. There’s no denial to be had, so he only shrugs, moving further up to massage at Shiro’s shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to ask.”

“Well . . . yeah, of course, but. I mean. Most people do anyway.”

Keith shrugs again.

“I know what my reputation is but I’m not that much of a tactless jerk, I think.”

It startles a proper laugh from Shiro, knocking something in his chest loose. For a moment, he’s afraid he might cry. He struggles to hold it in, the giddy happiness he usually feels around Keith rushing in with a vengeance. It leaves him trembling the slightest in a burst of unforeseen contentment.

“You were right,” he says, barely audible with the emotions stealing his voice. There’s the slight whisper of sand and clothing as Keith leans in closer to listen. “You _are_ good at this.”

“Heh. It’s just a little—”

“It’s a lot,” Shiro blurts, and maybe it’s too honest, but he's passed the point of return and there's no way forward but the bare minimum truth that he can afford to let others see. “You . . . you do a lot for me, Keith. You do.”

Keith doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his hands go still, just a comforting touch that he seems reluctant to pull away.

“I’m here,” he says, quietly. “Always.”

Shiro swallows past the lump in his throat, blinking tears away as he nods. With a silence falling comfortably around them and Keith turning back to his arm, he finds it’s more than enough. Enough to convey the gratitude that he can’t express with how lacking mere words seem, enough to tangle his heartstrings into a mess he can’t make sense of. Enough to leave the rest unsaid, until they’re both ready.

It’s enough.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Allura takes one look at his face and directs him to the back room.

“I’ll handle the register today, you can organize the stocks.”

“But Coran already organized the . . . ?”

“There’s a new batch of medicines that he may have forgotten to list, could you please check up on that?”

“Uh, Allura—”

“Coran can restock the displays in the meantime, but I feel like it’ll be a slow day anyway so, if you need a day off—"

“Allura?”

She turns to him with a bright smile, tilting her head in question. “Yes?”

Shiro snorts and waves his hand at her, already trudging towards the backroom.

“Nothing. I owe you one.”

“You most certainly do not!” she calls after him, but Shiro just waves again and shuts the door behind him. He leans back against it for a moment and lets out a deep sigh, half-heartedly trying to reign in the stupid smile on his face. His heart feels like it's swollen up to three times its usual size. Whatever he felt about the townspeople on most other days, he could never deny the truly good fortune he had in knowing these precious few who made him feel so welcome.

They’d learned over time, of course, from all the times he’d come into work like this—

Shiro pauses in his thoughts, brow wrinkling. Outside, he can hear the chime of the bell as their first customer enters, Allura greeting them with that incredible cheer that she always manages to pull off so easily.

He sighs again, then straightens up, cracking his knuckles.

Time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

_Don’t leave. Please. We can fix this._

_S̴̘͐̈͝ḥ̶̠͓̂̏̌i̶̦̾͐̕r̶̰̮̫͊́̚o̵͈̾—_

 

* * *

 

Shiro knows there's a phase in his life that he'll probably never want to remember. He knows it's from losing his arm and possibly something more; the nightmares had never let him forget it. They'd spanned his sleep and every conscious moment, leaving him aching and exhausted, for days on end. Their sheer frequency had created a routine of sorts too; a demented one, but routine nonetheless. He’d been in recovery at the time, from his injuries and the things he’d seen on the battlefield, and the sounds and images and memories had coalesced into an ugly, terrifying form.

Eventually, he'd come to a place in his mind that was far better than downhill. More a comfortable middle ground that was neither here nor there, and taking him nowhere fast, but it had been better than nothing. He'd been alright in that phase; well enough to do the bare minimum and not feel an imminent panic attack stealing his breath.

He'd been getting better.

This time is different.

It begins with a sudden sharp juxtaposition that splits his life in half, matching up with the fall and rise of the sun. At day, there's Keith and there's his friends and there's warmth. There's a glow that fills him up and leaves him feeling stronger than he's ever felt: happiness, and love, in a form he's never dared hope for, and suddenly it's all right within his reach. There's amity and unending support, and it doesn’t escape him that it’s been decidedly that way since a certain person had entered his life.

Then, night falls and it reminds him of all the ways he’s failing, all the ways he no longer feels at ease when falling asleep, pulled down into a pool of nightmares that seem to lie in wait for when he's most vulnerable.

He wakes up, afraid, all too often. He shakes and gasps, his cheeks damp with tears and he can’t remember why, because the dreams always slip away, water through his fingers. Sometimes he finds himself reaching out to the side as though in search of someone, someone meant to exist in a gap that he's felt for nearly all his life. His hand closes on nothing but air though, and the name he wants to call out fades further from his grasp. Sense eludes him but the dreams continue, and Shiro comes apart more with each one.

It’s imagination running wild and he’s helpless to stop it, or to prevent the slow descent when it begins to spillover into his daily life again.

Keith notices. Of course he does. But he keeps his promise and doesn’t say a word despite his gaze remaining tight on Shiro’s every movement, assessing and caring and so damn _worried_.

The compensation for his silence is action; he sticks close by Shiro's side, satellite caught in a star's orbit, never crowding in and never leaving. It’s felt most when Shiro has one of his moments, suffocating in the blackhole of his thoughts until Keith’s hand or shoulder brushes against his, a reassuring, unassuming touch that pulls him back to Earth and sanity.

It’s a lifeline in a world that seeks to drown him and Shiro takes it, every time.

 

* * *

 

“Shiro, are you awake? Shiro?”

It takes a while for the question to register. Shiro comes back to awareness slowly and waits for the world to materialise around him. Sound comes first—the low murmur of voices and shuffle of feet, the hum and click of shitty air conditioning. Next comes sensation, starting from his feet and up. His fists are wrapped around the bar of a trolley filled with the pathetic offerings of a few vegetables and a box of cereal.

When he looks up at last, squinting a little against the too-bright lights of the grocery store, he spots a young girl standing before him. Her face is ashen, lips pinched tight in fright. It takes a second too long for recognition to kick in.

“ . . . Pidge?”

She inhales, sharp and hurt, like she’s just swallowed glass.

“Oh, so, you recognise me. That’s a start I guess.”

Shiro blinks slowly and nods, shifting a little on the spot. He can’t make sense of the pitch of her voice, how it’s a little higher than usual. That means something. There’s a fog still clouding his thoughts and he shakes his head irritably, a bad headache already setting in.

“Pidge, hey. Sorry, I . . . I was thinking.”

“Well, maybe don’t think so hard next time, you look like you’re hurting yourself.”

It’s sharp and rather unwarranted, and that’s what shakes him from his daze. Pidge glares at him with glassy eyes, teeth sunken into her bottom lip.

“I—Are you okay?” He asks, all thoughts of his own situation fleeing at the sight of her tears. He makes to move closer, draw her aside to accommodate some illusion of privacy despite being smack in the middle of a very public store. Pidge steps away from him though, shaking her head, hard.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Shiro stops. An unwelcome chill slides down his spine and his feet seem to root themselves to the floor.

He doesn’t want this conversation, whatever it is.

“I . . . What? I’m not leaving,” he says, and it probably shouldn’t sound so much like a question. “Where would you get that idea?”

Pidge just looks at him sadly.

“You will,” she whispers. “And it’s okay. It really is. You’re figuring it out, right?”

Shiro swallows, measuring out his breath the way he'd been taught, pulling himself together before he can throw himself into a spiral. None of this makes sense. He takes a quick look around himself, paying attention to the faint murmur of other shoppers and the brightness of the lights, the windows—

The windows. There’s nothing but darkness beyond the glass panes. Not the dark of night but that of a void, an eerie emptiness that has no business existing here. It’s answer enough for him, though.

This isn’t real.

It offers him a clarity he hadn’t possessed before and he sees it then: the townsfolk’s faces are blurred over; like they’re mere objects or substitutes for whatever reality this is meant to imitate. Is it a dream? A nightmare? Only Pidge remains a firm and solid being within his reach and it occurs to him that she’s there for a reason.

Answers. He needs answers. He has so many questions crowding his brain, so many fears, but if there’s one thing he needs to know, if there’s one thing that Pidge might just be able to tell him, despite her strange behaviour—

His throat closes up, painfully tight. There’s no reason for it. There’s no reason for any of it and maybe that’s what helps, in a way. Because none of this makes sense, so what does it matter, really?

“I . . . I think I lost someone. I don’t know who.”

It comes out raspy, with emotion sitting heavy in his chest. Pidge looks at him for a long, long moment, then ducks her gaze and nods.

“Yeah,” she sniffs, knuckling her tears away in frustration. “You need to find them, don’t you? Or let them find you.”

“I . . . but I don’t know how . . .”

“Well, maybe they already—”

 

* * *

 

Shiro wakes up in bed.

It’s midnight, only barely settled in, the stark silence outside something damning. It’s no surprise to him that the weight in his chest has carried over from the dream. He curls into himself, shuddering; presses the heel of his hands to his eyes and prays to stave off the misery from the eternal struggle of knowing too little and too much.

It’s a dichotomy he’d grown familiar with over the years and he’s had enough of it to last a life time.

 

* * *

 

When he sees Pidge later that week, it’s an ordinary and mundane meeting in the grocery store again. He doesn’t dare bring up his dream but she behaves exactly the way she always has, greeting him with an enthusiastic hug. Like he’s not a fuck up, irredeemable and haunted by these strange things that have circuited their way from nonsense to madness. Like he hasn’t come close to destroying every inch of his sanity trying to find answers to the holes in his memories. Like it’s not the umpteenth time . . .

He sighs and he smiles and he hugs her to his side. Ruffles her hair into the resemblance of a tornado-struck mess, then fends himself from the wrath of her flying fists. Greets her brother like all is well and smiles enough to leave them at ease.

He goes on with his day, allowing the frustration to leak out like toxin from a wound. It does him no good to embrace it, so he lets the breeze take his pains away, lets the sunlight soak into him until he’s scrubbed as clean of his thoughts as he can be.

It hadn’t always been that easy, but practice and experience had made it exceedingly simple to let go.

 

* * *

 

“Got you a drink.”

The can of soda knocks lightly into Shiro’s shoulder, coolness seeping through his shirt. Keith’s smile is soft and almost blinding for its rarity. He takes a seat beside Shiro on the lighthouse steps. His staff continue their work, perched high up on scaffolds as they install new windows for the lantern room, their murmurs and the clang of instruments filling the air and carrying down to where they're seated. Shiro accepts the can quietly and tries his hardest not make anything out of this.

This, being Keith, coming to sit beside him despite how busy he seems, giving his time to Shiro so unequivocally, without thought.

Shiro’s knee bounces in agitation, his running shoes tapping against the metal. He’s sweated through his shirt but he’s already cooling down with the aid of the constant breeze and the barely risen sun that peeks over the crest of the horizon. He’s hyper aware of the press of Keith against his side, with hardly a gap between them. They’re closer than ever and his heart continues to stutter the way of every lovesick fool with a silly crush.

This is something often shared between them, post jog and early morning work checklists. The sand in their clothes, the wind in their hair, this sunrise right here. Shiro doesn’t remember how it began but it’s been theirs since. Today, the difference all lies in the decision he’s made. He pops the can open and takes a sip, lets the sweetness wash over his tongue as he thinks of nothing, letting his mind go blissfully blank for just one moment more before he does this.

“Hey, Shiro?”

And Keith reels him in before he can go too far, as always. Shiro can’t help but smile, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, humming in response. Keith starts out slow and hesitant.

“I . . . know I said I wouldn’t ask but . . . is everything okay? Um. Penny for your thoughts?”

Shiro slowly rights himself and nods. He opens his eyes, not looking at Keith.

“You know I was in the army?”

Keith stills besides him. Shiro can’t take his gaze off the ground as he speaks but there’s a rustle when Keith turns to face him, the scrape of his boots against the stairs spelling dread, but also the hope of being heard. Of being understood.

“It was the civil war in Thaldycon, oceans and years away. It went on and on, longer than anyone predicted, and we were exhausted. We’d all seen some shit, we all wanted to go home. Some of us were more desperate than others.”

It’s coming out all wrong, blunt and to the point, but he doesn’t have any other way of putting it. No preparation or thought; just the blank retelling of what was his life. The voices of the crew behind them seem to fall to a dull roar and Shiro can’t tell if it’s just his hearing or not.

“Civilians were caught in the crossfire. A bunch of them were captured, convicted as spies or prisoners of war, anything that would stick. In a war that ugly and long, people wanted something to blame and High Command wanted to make an example of them. There were—kids, some too young to even realise that the men who had supposedly come to protect them, to stop the war . . . that they were the ones they should be fearing instead.”

Keith is quiet throughout, focused, not saying a single word. There’s so much to that silence; the knowledge that Keith is putting his every cell into giving him his attention, without interruption. Shiro sucks in a deep breath and keeps going, rubbing his palms together as he speaks.

“Most of the platoon went along with it. But I couldn’t. Not anymore, at least. I’d stood back and watched as things happened during the war and chalked it up to fate but at that moment, I couldn’t leave those lives to something so . . . frivolous. So, I got involved, and . . . well. I don’t really remember what happened after that, but I know no one was happy with my interference. Things didn’t go so well for me.”

He doesn’t have to look at his arm to know that Keith gets it; it’s all pretty implicit, he thinks, though he’s also sure that Keith is the last person to let himself presume things about others. He keeps talking instead; splits himself open and spills the journey he’d made for himself in all this time. How he’d landed in the town, lost and dragged down by the shadows, a former shell of himself that most people wanted nothing to do with. How Allura had been the only one to approach him, recognizing him for the veteran he was. She’d offered him the same job he’s been working at since, offered him companionship and peace in a time when there was barely any to be had. He tells Keith how his therapist, Dr. Holt, had wanted him to engage himself more to stop letting the despair crash over him and control his life.

Everyone in this town knew bits and pieces about him from what little they’d seen and gathered from circumstance, but this . . . It’s the first time he’s ever told the story whole, limited as he knows it. It’s the first time he’s really wanted anyone to know.

“I think these nightmares I’m having . . . I think they’re from that time of my life. They're memories. And I don’t know how to deal with them without feeling like I’m failing Dr. Holt and everyone I know, I don’t even remember what happens in them, but they’re . . . they’re haunting me,” he admits, with a sick rush in his stomach at finally confessing to what has now been weeks of restless nights.

Next thing Shiro knows, Keith’s hands are covering his, work gloves settling scratchy but warm over his knuckles. They pull his nails away from where he's scrabbling at skin and Shiro doesn’t know when he’d dug them in like that. Reassurance is something he’s had much of but, right then, with Keith holding on to him, he feels enveloped in a sense of safety. Tethered. A howling wind could try their best to tear them apart and still, Keith would never let him go.

It scares him, to think these things about a man he hadn’t even known until a few months ago. But maybe that’s what had made Keith so reliable. He’s a blank slate when it comes to the scars that litter Shiro’s body and soul; someone with no expectations of Shiro, no demands to be made. He simply is. Existing, and all that more beautiful for it.

He turns to Keith and isn’t shocked to see those violet eyes well up. The other man grips his hand tighter, shoulders trembling under the onslaught of emotion.

So Shiro folds.

“And then you showed up,” he whispers, “And my world got so much brighter. You've . . . you've changed my life, Keith. You’re a reminder of how good it is to be here, how much better it can be. You make it worth waking up, every day.” He says it with an unwavering confidence that perhaps doesn’t match the way his hands are still far from steady. Shiro knows better now though. The things he’s faced is what makes him hurt even now, but it’s the things he wants, with all his heart, that make his will iron.

Keith looks right back at him with that same, unflinching strength, not once shying away. His eyes dart once to Shiro’s mouth, desperation fighting with the need to comfort, and it’s why it’s as easy as breathing then, for Shiro to move in and kiss him.

It’s wet and salty and Keith is still crying but he’s surging into the kiss even so, and it’s all Shiro needs. He gets one hand up to cradle Keith’s face, smooths his thumb over the bolt of his jaw and knows he’s never held anything more precious. Slows the kiss to something sweet and aching, to the exact way he’d only barely let himself imagine since they’d first met. Keith’s arms come up to encircle his neck, to pull them flush against each other, and Shiro holds him close like there’s never been a time where they were otherwise.

Their lips meet, again and again in this soft, sun-lit corner on the steps of the lighthouse and it couldn’t be more picturesque; it couldn’t be more perfect for two less than perfect souls. When he pulls back, Keith's mouth is doing something funny, curving up into a smile before crumbling. He swipes clumsily at the tears, then gives up and smiles right through them.

“I have things to say, too,” Keith begins, rubbing a hand under his nose and looking briefly away. Nothing can hide the way his eyes shine with happiness though. “I have things to say, but not . . . not now. Later. I’ll tell you later, I promise, but . . .”

Keith falls silent when Shiro takes his hands again, cupping them gently in his own. He pulls the gloves off, slow and patient, sets them to the side when he’s done. Traces his fingers over the revealed skin, ghosts his touch over tan lines and faded scars, closes his eyes to let the memory of the kiss sink in, lips tingling at every second remembered. He lets himself smile.

Curiousity brims in him, but for once, Shiro feels no need to pull on that particular loose thread.

“It’s okay,” he says finally, and he can feel Keith’s gaze on him as he speaks. “It can wait. We have a lot of time, we don't need to rush.”

He thinks it’s the right thing to say. Keith ducks his head, something in his expression lightening. His hands curl around Shiro’s and squeeze, and when he looks up again, he’s bearing the kind of bright-eyed smile that would weaken any ordinary man’s knees.

“Sounds good to me,” he murmurs, and reaches up to pull Shiro into another kiss.

The subsequent make-out session has them preoccupied for the next few minutes, so caught up in each other that they hardly notice time passing until Keith’s crew interrupts them with wolf whistles from their perch on the scaffolds above. It has Keith stomping back towards them to give them a piece of his mind but not before he pecks Shiro one last time on the cheek.

Shiro sits there, warm down to his core, sand in his shoes and in his hair, Keith’s work gloves laying forgotten by his hip. He touches his fingers to his lips and wants to slap himself for the giddy laughter that tries to bubble its way up his throat. Keith’s voice rings out behind him, snappy with embarrassment. He doesn’t have to look to be able to picture the angry blush on his face, how the red would be spread down his neck and under the collar of his jumpsuit. Can imagine the exact way Keith would give up on corralling his crew and bring his focus back to his work, only to remember his gloves and be forced to walk back over while the crew got one last dig in.

He can imagine more days like these in the future, sometime in the years ahead, Keith still blushing that beautiful red, still cursing out his crew, still taking his hand with that intensity in his eyes that seems reserved solely for Shiro.

He can imagine it all too well, and his heart goes full with it. This is what they call butterflies in the stomach, he thinks, and as though beckoned, a butterfly flits past his nose, wings shimmering a soft, moss green.

The sun rays soak the ground and light up the skies and Shiro can’t see a downside to any of it.

 

* * *

 

Hunk, with all his experience in being best friends to the resident wannabe lover-boy AKA Lance, notices immediately.

“Alright, spill.”

Shiro stares up at him, mouth full of half-chewed egg. He swallows delicately, sets down his knife and fork, and braces himself for the inquisition.

“What do you mean?”

Hunk snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. The motion has his hat listing to the side and Shiro wants dearly to point it out, if only to save face from the embarrassment this is bound to bring him.

“Playing dumb really doesn’t suit you, y’know? Like, at all. To the point it's almost aggravating.”

"I really don’t think I—”

“I'm just saying, our lighthouse keeper seems _super_ happy these days.”

Shiro suddenly wishes he hadn’t specifically chosen to come to the diner when the morning crowd was waning. Hunk swears by the comfort of his customers but he’s not beyond being nosy, just as long as there was no one left to wait on. Shiro shrugs, trying to play it off, but only gets a pointed stare as Hunk begins to count the offenses on his fingers.

“He came in here for lunch yesterday, practically skipping through the door. He was whistling off-beat tunes. He _smiled_ at me. And it was actually a nice smile!”

That one gets to him and Shiro snorts in laughter, bending over to put his face in his hands. Hunk huffs and waits for him to calm down, clearly not about to budge until he gets some answers. Eventually, Shiro caves.

“He does have a nice smile,” he admits.

“I knew it!” Hunk pumps his fist in the air and grins, leaning over the counter top. “So? Something _did_ happen?”

Shiro blushes, and it’s almost answer enough for the way Hunk slides even closer.

“We may have held hands and . . . kissed,” he mumbles, staring at his food.

“ _Nice_ ,” Hunk says, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that tells Shiro he wants to know more but is holding back for his sake. It’s not a favour he does for just anyone so Shiro counts his blessings and sticks another forkful of egg in his mouth. Hunk watches him, chin in hand, smile warm and happy.

“You should tell him to drop in more often. Or better yet, take him out on a date. A nice restaurant or something. Not Lotor's, don't give that creep your money. Oh, how about Shay's?”

Shiro face burns again, but he’s in a good mood today; good enough even to indulge Hunk.

“Yeah? Whatever happened to being afraid of him?”

The response is a snort. Hunk straightens up when the bell over the door rings as a customer walks in. He calls out a quick greeting, then turns back to Shiro.

“Oh, man, I'm way over that. He's not scary at all, he’s just a dumb sap, especially when he talks about you.”

This . . . is news to Shiro.

“H-he talks about me?” he squeaks, then clears his throat, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck. “I mean, uh . . . really?”

Hunk snickers.

“It's more like he won’t _shut up_ about you,” he says, smirk turning just that edge of smug. “Pretty serious case of a lovebug, if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Huuunk,” Shiro whines, like he’s not stupidly pleased by this information. Hunk just grins and pats him on the arm mockingly.

“Sorry buddy, we just never get to tease you about anything. It’s a rare opportunity.”

His smile gentles as he moves to go back into the kitchen.

“You guys . . . fit well together, you know? I’m glad.”

It’s not until then that Shiro realizes he’s been waiting to hear that; waiting for anyone else to notice just how they’ve connected, puzzle pieces made to fit. It soothes him and he nods in response, smiling down at his breakfast.

“Yeah . . . we do, don’t we?”

Hunk is already gone by then, but that doesn’t matter. Shiro knows it now, with conviction, and it leaves him with peace in his core.

 

* * *

 

There’s a brutal night where Shiro finds himself with barely any energy to lift himself out of bed. His head feels muddled, and he can’t remember much more than flashes of the latest dream. The warm press of someone's fingers clasped tight over his right hand, dampness on his cheeks. Hair brushing against his forehead, tickling over his nose, while the sensation of a hesitant kiss faded from his lips.

There were eyes too. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly sad.

It’s all that sticks with him, and it bogs him down until his body feels too heavy. It’s early morning, right around the time when the lighthouse staff come in for work, and only the prospect of seeing Keith has him pushing his way out the door. Dim in his mind is the realization that this is ridiculous. That he should be taking a moment longer to take stock of himself, that he shouldn’t be bothering Keith with this over and over, but the need to be selfish is far stronger than any sense of self-preservation or guilt.

He just wants to see Keith, have his day brighten up by the sight. He just wants to make sure Keith is okay.

The thought makes him pause for a mere moment, but it slips away just as fast. Why would Keith not be okay?

 

* * *

 

When he gets to the beach, the first thing that registers is the quiet. Usually, he jogs a long winding route that takes him all over the town before getting anywhere close to the beach path. This time, he’s come straight from his home to here, no detours, and it means he’s arriving earlier than usual.

The crew isn’t there yet, but Keith is. He’s on the platform at the top of the stairs, paintbrush in hand, focus set on painting a patch over the railing. The rust is long gone by now, metal cleaned and coated with a beautiful forest green shade, but there’s huge, white handprints on one side; clearly one of the crew had touched it with paint-wet hands, judging by the way Keith is grumbling over it.

Then, Shiro notices what he’s wearing and it has his brain sputtering to a rapid halt. He waits a moment longer, hoping Keith will turn and see him first, to no avail. But then, no one has ever made the mistake of calling him a coward.

“You’ll get paint on your uniform,” he calls out.

Keith whirls around, wielding the brush in front of him like it’s a blade.

“Wha—Shiro!”

Shiro chuckles, taking the stairs up slowly. He lets his eyes move over Keith’s form, appreciative as he takes in the deep blue uniform blazer and the clean white shirt beneath it. It’s the first time he’s seen Keith wear something besides the jumpsuit or his casuals. He looks incredibly good, blazer fitted enough to show off broad shoulders and the taper of his waist. He tells him so, even as he steps closer to Keith, who seems to have been struck dumb at the sight of him.

“Only you would paint while wearing such nice clothes,” he teases, and Keith jerks the brush away from himself, just in time, as a glob of green paint drips to the floor. Keith sighs.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t accounting for Antok to smear his damn fingers over the railing when I woke up this morning and decided to wear this.”

"What's the occasion?"

"Nothing, really. Mostly I got tired of the jumpsuit, but, uh. We're pretty much done renovating, so I figured it was about time I got used to wearing it."

Shiro blinks and tilts his head back to get a proper look at the tower. It's—certainly different from how he remembers it. It's too dark to make out all the changes the crew have made over the months but there's a new air to it, something he can't put a finger to. Something it hasn't had in the years since it was shut down, or since the first person took spray paint and an attitude to its walls.

He can see the lantern room at the very top though, glass windows clean and gleaming. He can imagine the light beam that would emanate from it in the future, intense but reassuring, a benevolent firefly guide through the darkest of nights.

"It looks good," he breathes, bringing his gaze back to the ground. He takes another step forward without thought, closer into Keith's space. Keith looks up at him distractedly, pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. It curls right back, flopping over eyes that glimmer under the starlight, and Shiro just wants to kiss him. There's a thrill in knowing he _can_ kiss him again and that it'd be wanted, reciprocated. But the things that haunt his nights are still too fresh at the back of his head, and it's a stupid fear, born of paranoia, but . . . he doesn't want a single bit of that darkness to reach Keith. Keith, who shines brighter than a solar flare and still manages to find worth in someone like Shiro. So he refrains, drapes an arm over Keith's shoulder, pulls him closer to plant a kiss to his forehead instead. It's enough when he gets to watch redness creep up Keith's face.

Keith's frowning though, confusion warring with worry.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what are you doing here so early—”

He gives him a deliberate once-over.

“—In your pyjamas?”

Shiro blanches and looks down, only then realizing he'd walked through town in his tank top and sweats. It’s not all too different from what he wears on his runs but it’s the principle of the matter that makes his cheeks burn.

“Oh. I, uh. It’s nothing. Just had another nightmare and it was nearly 5 anyway, so I figured . . . well, I just wanted to see you.”

It has the intended effect of softening Keith’s worry, just the slightest, and he smiles at Shiro, reaching up to squeeze his wrist.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, and Shiro smiles gently in reassurance.

“When you’re with me? Yeah.”

It’s the sappiest thing he could possibly say, and he means every word of it, which probably explains the way Keith sputters and pulls away, cheeks dusted pink.

“O-oh. Right. That’s . . . good,” he says rather lamely, and there’s a very brief silence before they both burst into helpless snickers.

“Stop distracting me!” Keith protests, trying muffle the laughter behind his hand as he turns back to his work. “Let me finish this up, hold on.”

“You’d rather paint the railing when I came all this way to see you?” Shiro asks, faking outrage at the idea. He folds his arms and leans against a dry section of the rail, watching fondly as Keith rolls his eyes. He’s not even trying all that hard to keep the atmosphere light; it comes naturally between them as Keith plays along with him, pretending to seriously think his question over.

“I mean, you’re not really offering me much incentive, you know?”

The dream is all but forgotten, and it only tells him what his subconscious self had already known; every minute he spends in Keith’s presence is another minute where his heart is bounding, filling, beating harder that it's ever done. Every moment is precious, with his cheeks hurting from how wide he's smiling. He'd do this over and over, bear every nightmare and horror and every gray day if it meant Keith would stay by his side and keep looking at him like that.

“Would a kiss be good incentive?”

“Hmmm. Pass.”

“Okay, that’s it. Put the paintbrush down, now, and no one gets hurt,” Shiro jokes. Keith just laughs again, shaking his head.

“Patience yields focus, remember?” He snarks under his breath, grinning as he flicks his wrist in a finishing stroke.

“I don’t have a lot to spa—"

Shiro stops and feels his body grow cold.

Keith doesn’t notice at first. He wipes at his forehead with the back of his wrist and leans back in satisfaction, assessing his work with a pleased lilt to his lips. By the time he does look up, Shiro’s breath is too quick, too shallow. He drops the paintbrush in alarm as Shiro staggers back from him.

“Shiro?”

“Wh-what did you say? Just now, you—”

Shiro can’t get his words right, can’t get his thoughts in order, can’t get any of this to make sense. He can’t remember if he—

Keith's face is paper white and it's a strike against him, a strike against whatever all this is.

"Shiro, I—"

“How could you know that phrase? I never—”

There’s pain. It blooms, sudden and sharp, like a lance right through the brain. Shiro gasps, or maybe he chokes. The sound echoes within him and his vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shows up three months late with Starbucks, apologising profusely ;;  
> Here it is at last! The last chapter, rated E for exposition (I kid, kinda)  
> I hope you enjoy!!! <3

* * *

 

_"Were you so sad, then?" I asked, "on the day of the forty-four sunsets?"_

_But the little prince made no reply._

 

* * *

 

Shiro comes awake slowly for once, muzzy and dry-mouthed.

There’s silence all around him, the kind of soundlessness that edges towards eerie. He keeps his eyes closed, bid by a sense of foreboding; as though the barrier of his eyelids could shield him from any danger that lay beyond. The darkness he sees is solid with an encroaching hint of light, and the heat on his skin tells him that the sun has yet to fully rise, a strange fact that comes clear to him even through the muffled quiet of his brain.

How long has he been sleeping?

A brief image of the lighthouse invades his thoughts and he amends himself as soon as he remembers. He’d been with Keith. They'd been awake to watch the glitter of the stars, seen the bewitching blue of midnight that had yet to give in to daylight.

How long has he been _unconscious_? Five minutes? An entire day? More?

_Years—_

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat as his body goes leaden in shock, dead to his attempts to move. There’s a pressure bearing upon him, uneasiness stirring in his guts. The coldness of concrete stings through his tank top, but there’s something else beneath him, cushioning the upper half of his torso so he’s not completely flat on the ground.

Something warm and alive.

He sucks in harshly and forces his eyes open, all at once fully conscious. The sky spins dizzily above him, the lighthouse a tall, shadowed pillar that cleaves the middle of the picturesque view. He’s laid horizontal, body aching something awful; the abrupt pain that begins to coalesce in his head is somehow worse. He hisses through his teeth as the pain grows, and the warmth beneath him suddenly shifts.

“Shiro! Hey, hey, easy _—_ You’re okay, I promise.”

Shiro blinks a few times and tilts his head back, squinting through bleary vision to find Keith leaning over him, his face stormy with barely-contained concern. The skies are painted pink-orange behind him, clouds spread thin beyond the curve of his shoulders and creating the prettiest illusion of a halo around him.

“Hey . . . Are-are you back?”

It takes another moment too long for Shiro to realise that his head is in Keith's lap. He has no time to process this; not really. He thinks, almost fondly: _This is familiar._ And then wrenchingly at odds: _No, it's not. How could it be?  
_

Then time’s run out and his vision bends, twisting sharply. He yells, or he thinks he yells. He’s not sure. A distorted reel of pictures roll past him before he can quite catch them, the afterimages glitching terribly. Noises snarl and tangle in his head and he can’t distinguish one from the other to make any sense of them. Colours bloom bright before him, contrasted with the stark black of their surroundings and then it all straightens out with an almost visual snap. For just that moment, he sees clearer than he ever has before.

Butterflies.

Large and small, reds and oranges and twinkling jewel tones. Winds stir up in the wake of their lightly fluttering wings. They're settled on Keith’s arms and shoulders, clustered up in a forest of shades. There’s rose-gold in his hair and red baked into his skin, his pupils turned cat-eyed; bright and gilded. Draped in deep red robes, an aura of shimmering heat and power emanates from him, dangerous and comforting in equal measures.

The moment slips past in one blink and then there's only Keith. Keith, who has always been something extraodinary with his blazing eyes and strangely unconditional love, and that sweet smile that's absent now in the wake of fear, his lips set into a hard line.

Keith, who is butterfly effect personified, setting off so much by his mere arrival.

The pressure loosens up all at once and Shiro’s very aware of a heaviness in his mind. Memories come seeping in and he's caught somewhere between panic and relief, wonders which is more appropriate when he thinks this is supposed to be reassuring. They come in a relentless but slow trickle, dislodging others as they do.

Maybe reality is finally warping his tired mind, as all the things he should have known but had forgotten come back to pay their due.

Because now he knows Keith has always looked at him this way—with warmth, devotion, and passion unrivalled—and he has never once stopped. Because now he knows Keith is everything, _was_ everything to him, that he has always put Shiro first in every way that matters—and that's an old hurt too, someting he needs to smooth out once the churned-up silt of his memories have settled in his mind.

Because, thing is, Keith's face hasn't changed one bit. Not now, not yesterday, not ten years back.

Becase not even a thousand years have changed the way Keith loves him.

“Shiro,” Keith begins to say, and Shiro mows right over his words, uncertain, hushed, urgent, because—

“I knew you before, didn't I?”

There’s a very heavy silence that stretches on too long. Keith's face twists with a quiet, shocked hope. He'd never quite learned to hide his emotions after all, and maybe that's a blessing here.

“I knew you,” Shiro rasps again, blinking away a wash of tears. “I knew you once. I’ve known you all along.”

* * *

They stand side-by-side at the freshly-painted railings, watching sun rays stretch out over the sand. The sun’s fully risen now but rain clouds converge on the horizon, threatening a visit to their beach. The ache in Shiro's body leeches out with every second spent there, with every new inch of memory gained.

“Keith,” he says, experimentally, and the name rolls off his tongue in a mix of right and wrong. Another name sparks in him, one that belonged to whoever Keith used to be, but there’s no language that could contain it. No script that could encompass what it means. Even then it doesn’t matter, because it’s all the same. It’s always just been . . . _Keith_. Only him, and no one else.

“What are we?”

Keith looks at him, eyes shining, all-seeing. He sighs, a soft smile pulling at the lines around his mouth.

“This isn't the first time you’ve asked me that.”

It’s not an answer, more a clumsy dodge of a response, but Shiro accepts it for now, lets himself be influenced by the tiredness that cloaks Keith. He’ll know soon enough, he’s sure, and that’s part of what scares him. He swallows through a painfully dry throat, runs his hands ragged through his hair. Sense memory tells him of years of doing the same, a habit ingrained deep, over and over. Like Keith, he hasn't changed one bit either.

“How long have I been . . .?” He doesn't know how to finish the question. _Asleep? Dead? Missing?_

_Gone._

“ . . . 78 years. 3 months and counting.”

Shiro clenches his teeth at the number, but Keith has no judgement to place before him. Only understanding, and an age-old sorrow that he'd worked to not make apparent, something that Shiro is now beginning to realise might be his fault.

“It’s a lifetime for a human, only a blip for us, but—every second of it still hurt,” Keith says. He's fighting to keep his voice steady, almost succeeds at it too. Right then though, he looks every bit the man who’s had to live those long 78 years, bearing that loss. Tied down by it still, as though the grief had never let him run far.

“We’re not human."

It’s not a question, not really, but Keith answers it all the same.

“Not in the traditional sense, no."

“We were more than that . . .”

“No one had just one name for us. We existed, together, for centuries on end. Spirits, gods, creators, guardians; there's been a lot of descriptors over the years. I just know we’re . . . we're eternal.”

Centuries.

Understanding dawns over Shiro, but it's not the colour of sunrise by any manner. It comes to him like knowledge he's always had, and he sorts through it frantically, picking out the most immediate that occur to him. Right at the top is every nightmare he's ever had, 3D and too fresh still, even if it's 78 years too late.

“The war in Thaldycon," he says, through a shallow intake of breath. "That’s where I lost my way?”

Snapshots filter in, tagging along onthat thought. Torn-up landscapes, bullet-ridden buildings and bodies, cries of pain. Faces, violent and angered, refusing to see reason.

 _You don’t have to fight like this, please. There are other ways. This war is pointless, can’t you_ see _what’s happening?_

He hadn’t been at Thaldycon as a soldier to any side. He’d been there to stop it, on his own. He’d been . . .

Keith just looks at him, made miserable by whatever he sees on Shiro's face.

“It hurt you, to watch them tear at each other," he says quietly. "To see the life you created drained out and abandoned, like it meant nothing. Thaldycon was the last hold, the last stand, and it would have decided everything, for better or for worse. I guess it was the only chance you thought you had, to make any difference, so you went to intervene and . . . things went bad.”

_A crowd intoxicated with rage and grief, channeling it the only way they knew, and Shiro lets them take it out on him. Lets them tear at him until satisfied but they are never satisfied, not until they’ve destroyed him, not until they’ve taken his arm and struck a scar onto his face and torn his mind apart with their pain—_

Shiro jerks out from the memory, lungs seizing up with the fear, the ghost agony of what he’s lost. Keith has a grip on his forearm, holding on despite everything.

“I. I was never a soldier? I wasn’t—is the town . . .?” he asks, uncertain and terrified of what it will mean. He remembers the dreams, the faceless people. Pidge and her strange fear, her sadness at his apparent remembrance. Had that been Pidge at all?

_Are you back?_

If none of it had been—

“The town is real. Real place, real people. Real friends,” Keith reassures him, and it brings a modicum of peace to know that, despite the growing turmoil. That it hadn’t all been meaningless is something he needs to hold on to right then. He leans forward, drooping over the rail, mind racing as he tries to accept what he can hardly believe. But the memories are settling in, piece by slow piece, and he cannot deny the truth in what he's lived.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbles, first instinct always to apologise. He digs his fingers into the metal, trembles and tries not to break under the onslaught of knowing. Next to him, Keith goes rather still.

“What? No, don’t be sorry, Shiro, this is  _not_ your fault,” he insists.

There’s a distant clap of thunder as rain begins to fall. Seagulls wail and celebrate the light drizzle that comes pattering over the rock around them. It soaks into his clothes, cold and biting, and Shiro’s heart takes a moment to breathe through the shock.

“If I hadn’t—"

“It's not your fault you lost Hope, Shiro.”

Shiro goes to respond but pauses at the strange string of words. He can feel the importance of it somehow, purposeful in it's use. Keith says hope the way someone would say life, or blood bonds, or love. It's weighed with meaning and it’s odd to hear it said about himself. He has to acknowledge the truth in it for at least one point in his life, but reconciling it to the now is a different matter.

“This isn't our first rodeo,” Keith is saying, with a slight edge to his voice. “When I heard what had happened, that you'd disappeared. When I lost you . . . I searched for months, chased and tracked you down until I found you, in a town not that far from here. I tried to convince you to come back.”

He pauses, tugs his sleeves down over white-clenched knuckles. Rain drops speck his blazer, crystalline and perfect before they're absorbed by the cloth.

“But you didn’t remember me.”

Silence falls between them. Shiro stares at him, heart sinking somewhere to his stomach.

“I tried again and again. I rushed it, tried to fix things only to mess up again, tried to get you to just _talk_ to me, but I made it worse each time. In the town right before this one, I came real close to having you back.” Keith bites his lip harshly, hesitates. “I. I told you everything when I thought it was safe, when I was sure you would listen, but it was too soon. I told you the truth of what we were, but you—”

He cuts himself off again and Shiro watches it happen, feeling like he’s watching a plane crash. Unable to look away, unable to stop it, helpless like he’d been on that battlefield so long ago. He can’t imagine what it’s taking to admit this. For Keith to admit to holding himself so open to hurt, over and over again for just one person, and then to keep doing it as though he weren’t cutting himself with every attempt.

“Y-you didn’t want to come back with me,” Keith says through a shredded breath, closing his eyes, plane impact shuddering through both of them. “You ran as far as you could each time, because of guilt, because of self-hatred, because you were happier there and far away from me or the reminders of what happened, I don’t _know_! But your memories . . . You chose to lose them, Shiro. You _chose_ to forget, every time you remembered.”

Each word that spills from Keith’s mouth feels like a punch.

_A young man, a new person in town, approaching him with an intensity that’s far more alien than it is familiar. The shattered look on his face when Shiro doesn’t recognize him, when Shiro refuses to look at him, when Shiro asks him to leave him alone. Farther back, another town, the first town Shiro found, and it’s the same story. Over and over, and Shiro doesn’t know him each time, and still he persists. Then the last one, the one time he got close, the time they fell in love again except—_

_Don’t leave. Please. We can fix this._

_They'd kissed exactly once before it, hesitant and hopeful and heartbreaking in hindsight, because of course Shiro is breaking his heart again—_

_S̴̘͐̈͝ḥ̶̠͓̂̏̌i̶̦̾͐̕r̶̰̮̫͊́̚o̵͈̾—_

The smile that spreads across Keith’s face curls bitterly, wobbles into anything but what it’s supposed to be.

“I don’t blame you for it, I don’t. I left you alone after one time too many because I thought it’s what you wanted. Or, uh, maybe I just felt kind of . . . abandoned.” He laughs a hollow sound, swiping a palm across his mouth. Looks down at his feet. “The truth is, I sat back to nurse my wounds when what I should have been doing is my job.”

Shiro struggles to grasp this through a throat gone too tight. His memories are still too scattered, each one triggered far too late until everything has already been said and done. He thinks he should know _this_ , though.

“Keith—”

“You asked me what we were.” Keith’s eyes are a quiet inferno when Shiro meets them. They’re sharp, sparking with a new kindled fire. “They used to speak of me before, when we still mattered to them. They used to write odes. Passion and driving emotion, dangerous when led by false intention, or so they'd say. I was the lit candle by the bedside and the dirt beneath the nails of those who kept trying, I was the sweat down their backs, the wingtip of every butterfly that set things into motion. I’m the energy that boils in your blood. I . . . I was the spirit of Hope. And you—”

“I was Life itself,” Shiro whispers, this knowledge slotting in neatly compared to the other pieces that are still yet to find their place. They come in flashes, each time they settle, a quick glimpse at what he’d been, what he’d had. What he’d meant, to Keith and to the people who’d believed in him. Silver-haired and caped in black, the simple beauty and power of the stars at his behest, cosmic dust filling the wake of his footsteps. He’d had everything, including Hope at his side.

Keith nods, too composed suddenly for what Shiro knows of him.

“You were Life. And while I was mourning for what happened, I let you fall further and lose your way.”

His eyes flit to Shiro’s right. To his arm, his stump. Shiro gets it, then. It had nipped at his heels sometimes, those grey days when he couldn’t heave himself out of bed. The days he’d looked at his pills and wondered about tipping the bottle over until it filled his palm with a single lethal handful that would send him to rest.

“ _I_ failed _you_ ,” Keith concludes, "And I've been tryng to make up for it since." His voice cracks and he clears his throat quickly as though to cover it up.

Shiro is no longer sure if he’s piecing the story together right. He’s overwhelmed, emotions too tight under his skin, memories bloated and heavy in his head, but he knows what he’s seen. He knows what he’s felt and loved and cherished, and that does not include the way Keith paints himself.

“But . . . but you came for me,” Shiro mumbles.

“Almost too late to count for—”

“No, but you _did_ come for me,” Shiro says, resolve strengthening at the sight of the wretched look on Keith's face. He'd do anything to wipe that away and bring back his smile. Right then, the truth of this thing between them seems like a good way to begin. “You came back for me everytime, not just now. It’s why I’m still here, isn’t it?”

Because Shiro knows those days and the lowest points he’s reached, knows he couldn’t possibly have survived them on his own. Not without Hope still leading him by the hand. Keith frowns, deeps furrows forming between his brows.

“No. No, that was all you, Shiro. It’s enough for me to exist for hope to do so too. But you're the one who took it and moulded it for yourself. You brought yourself out—”

Shiro shakes his head impatiently, throws a gesture out to the town behind them. “That’s not it. Keith, you and I know I wouldn’t have been alive to see you again if it weren’t for the people living here.”

At Keith’s horrified flinch, he softens his voice, amends: “What I mean is, they pushed me. They made me feel like it was worth coming out here to just . . . live. To breathe in the air, to see the sun and the sea, to work and have a routine and live a life in this world. They made every day easier, every moment livable. And the only reason they could give me that is because _they_ believed in it themselves. Because they had hope. They had you, whether you knew it not.”

The tension in Keith doesn’t change a fraction, doubt still holding strong, and Shiro thinks he’s only just beginning to uncover the reasons for that.

It makes no sense to him though.

“I'm saying that you can’t possibly be blamed for me falling, _or_ for what happened afterwards. Hell, I practically set you up for failure each time you sought me out! The nightmares, the paranoia, my own fear of remembering, t-the . . . Look, Thaldycon was bad but _I_ wanted to save those people. I wanted to stop that war, wanted to stop them from tearing each other apart for nothing, destroying themselves so pointlessly when life is supposed to be—it's—”

He stops, catches his breath, the outpouring of his words an echo of things said long ago, to the same person standing before him now. He remembers being supported then too, the iron will that stood at his back and allowed him the room to imagine a better world. Nothing had changed at all, not in aeons, but . . . they had to be different, this time around. He looks at Keith, at the vulnerable slump of his shoulders, and knows he can’t have it any other way.

“Maybe it didn’t work out the last few times, but you brought me back. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Silence once more.

Keith stares at him for a long moment. His hair is plastered down now with the steady rain, clothes all but soaked, but he barely seems to pays it mind. He opens his mouth as though to respond but nothing comes forth, like the words have been swallowed up before they can escape him. From the darkness of Shiro's memories, this rings as familiar too, in moments of distress or high emotion. It makes him ache with all that he has yet to recall, all the broken pieces yet to be made whole. The things he’s learned about Keith are divided into _then_ and _now_ and it’ll be a while before each one overlaps and aligns neatly.

There's one thing that stands out clearly though, a sad fact that he needs to acknowledge when Keith still says nothing.

“You had a lot to handle, and I don't blame you for any of it, Keith. You lost your way too, for a while, didn’t you? It’s why the lighthouse . . .”

Keith’s lips flattens into a thin line of remembered pain. He clears his throat, shrugs a shoulder, up, down, with all the discomfort of a nervous boy put under an unwanted spotlight. It makes him look far younger that he is.

“Things kind of fell apart without you," he says, finally. "I had to . . . take care of it for a while. Life waits for no one, right?”

Shiro thinks of the kind of burden he’d left behind to be carried in inexperienced hands. He thinks of the sheer weight of Life in all its glorious mess, the drawn-out beginnings and abrupt ends. Keith would have tried his best to hold it all up, but he couldn’t have juggled that and the duties of Hope by himself, not without making himself sick. Of course it had all fallen out of balance, to the wayside, wavering. Yet, he’d still done it and he’d come back to Shiro too, over and over, to set it straight.

To fix that lighthouse.

Shiro sighs, long and low till all the air leaves his body. When he breathes in again, it fills him with the promise of a new life; a fresh start to the one that he'd nearly cut short again.

“K̵͔̮̋͊e̸͍̿̈̚͝i̶̡͈̇͐̐͐ṫ̷̗̜̮̮̈́ĥ̵̦̖̞,” he whispers. This time, it comes out in the way that’s always been theirs, unspoken by any other. The name is worn and familiar over his tongue, and Keith visibly warms at hearing it.

Shiro takes a step closer and reaches out to cup Keith’s face in his hand. He slides a slow thumb across the sharp point of his cheekbone, slicks back the wet hair and holds him in the way he’s sure Keith hasn’t been held in far too long.

“I'm sorry," he whispers. "You waited so long for me.”

Keith’s gaze flicks down, as though he can’t bear the touch, but his own hands come trailing up Shiro’s chest, pressing against his heart. The smile he wears is sad, but full of a helpless kind of love.

“You know I could never give up on you, Shiro.”

That one hurts.

“You should _never_ have had to go through that. All because of me,” Shiro barely manages to say, voice thickening with tears. He hates deeply that some part of Keith’s suffering had been by the very hands that he was trying to make gentle enough to touch him with. Did he even deserve to?

He gets his answer with the arms encircling his waist in an embrace.

“You didn’t deserve what happened either,” Keith says, and there’s only love there, with how every line of his body relaxes. Shiro inhales shakily, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry I—”

“Shiro,” Keith interrupts, quiet but fond. “You’ve always been my guiding light. Just this once, you wanted something for yourself. You wanted to fix things and then you needed the space, the time to heal, and I get that now, but there's one thing you got wrong . . . You thought you had to go it alone. I forgive you, always, because it’s not something that needs forgiving. But next time, I swear, you’re taking me _with_ you.”

Shiro feels the swell of tears break loose from his desperate grip on them, feels them slip down his face. He feels the tenderness in Keith’s fingers as he wipes them away. His chest tightens and he leans down until their foreheads press together, shaking at the hurricane of emotions swirling within him.

“I’m here now, Keith. I’m here. I’m not ever leaving you; never again.”

“You better not,” Keith laughs shakily, all breath and yearning rolled in one. “I’ll just come back for you again if you do.”

Shiro kisses him then and it's better than anything he's had before. Somewhere between the press of their lips, he feels a hundred past eternities of their kisses ripple through him, each one sweet and so distinct that it’s strange to think he’d ever forgotten how they felt.

There's still much to fix, so much to sort out and relearn about each other. It’s a giddy pleasure to know they have a thousand eternities more to make up for it.

“Where do we go from here?” He asks, when they’ve pulled away and settled down on the steps, leaning into each other’s warmth. In the distance, he can see Keith’s crew pulling in, seemingly taking their time to offer them some privacy. Shiro wonders if they suspect anything or if it's simply instinctual and friendly to give so much. He thinks it might be a mix of both, something applicable to the entire town.

Keith hums in response to his question, taking his time to tangle their hands together and trace lines over the back of Shiro’s. He smooths over the rough knuckles, pulls him closer to twine their fingers and plant a kiss to the back of Shiro's hand.

“Anywhere, I guess. We’re not exactly limited to where we can go, you know?”

Shiro smiles and there’s a delight in the fact that he does know this. One last memory slots into place, finally home amongst all the others he’s made whilst living in this town.

“How about staying here a while longer, then?" Shiro suggests. "It’s a beautiful day and I’m pretty sure it’s the chocolate-chip pancake special at Hunk’s today.”

Keith’s returning grin is positively glowing.

“Heh. Well, I’m not about to deny him the business, or myself some of those pancakes. It's a deal, Shiro.”

* * *

That last memory lingers for longer than any other at the front of Shiro’s mind. Longer, because it’s the first of any; the first he remembers.

It’s the first time Shiro'd seen Keith, when the both of them had been young and new to this, Keith brimming over with brightness. He'd been a masterpiece in creation, life and reality encompassed in one being, and the most beautiful thing Shiro'd ever seen. He'd been drawn to Keith like a force of nature had commanded it of him, a sunflower always facing it's sun. Keith had called him moonlight in return, illumination even in the darkest of days and the blackest of paths.

The memory lingers longest, because it's the moment he'd fallen in love. Because the first time Shiro had seen Keith . . . he'd seen light.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks for reading and sticking around for this story and encouraging me through everything!! If you've seen me on twitter, you might have seen me *struggling* with this fic. It isn't exactly how I envisioned it, in good ways and bad tbh. In fact, it's gone through a LOT of changes from it's initial conception, but I think I've reached a point where I can say I can let this one be what it is :) Time to move on to the rest of my horrendously numerous WIPs lol.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed, thank you again!! <3 ;;

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/wolfsan11) or [tumblr](http://wolfsan11.tumblr.com)! <3


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